


Too Late For Regrets

by Airie



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Character Death In Dream, Guilt, Other, Regret, Visions, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airie/pseuds/Airie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his attack on Ella Anders is struck with guilt in regret. After two days of hysteria and apathy, he wears himself out and falls asleep. Justice takes him on a trip through the Fade, showing various scenarios of what could happened if they hadn't joined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“To find the healer look for the lit lamp.”_

The lamp was out for the second day now. But Anders was within his sanctum. Alone. Going through his life and his decisions over and over again. Spiraling into despair and self-loathe, only to have it interrupted with short periods of numb indifference.

_“It all went wrong. Justice and I. We’re just a monster, same as any abomination.”_

His clinic was dark and cold, not even a brazier. The nippy darkness was a sharp contrast to the fire burning inside him. His inner struggle had no intention of dying out, he hadn’t had such a violent outburst since… Since Karl. Who else was inside? Justice? Vengeance?

_“Trash. Trash. Keep. Trash…”_

The few personal belongings he had were stuffed in one corner of the hospice, the other corner had useless things he wanted to get rid of… as if that would help him ease his troubled mind. He needed to occupy his hands, but there was nothing his mind could focus on to keep away from what he did… What he almost did.

One slipping thread of control kept him from murdering that poor innocent girl. Maker, weren’t Hawke there… No. He didn’t want to think of the obvious.

Justice couldn’t tell enemy form foe anymore. He demanded action. He demanded blood. As a spirit, he had no concept of time, he couldn’t grasp waiting, planning. He took Anders’ caution as weakness, sloth.

And when the time came, he finally lashed out, outrage at the templars mixed with exultance to finally strike a blow against them.

_“Get away from me, demon!”_

Perhaps if the mage girl wouldn’t say that, Justice wouldn’t turn his ire on her. Turning into a demon was every spirit’s worst fear. But what if that already happened? What if his union with Anders corrupted the spirit?

 _“Demons are spirits perverted by their desires.”_ Justice once said through Kristoff’s dead lips. At that time he claimed he had no desires, aside from the virtue he personified.

But that changed. Now, he desired vengeance. He personified vengeance.

His eyelids were heavy, head felt surprisingly light in comparison. Had he any sleep since the incident? No… But on the bright side sleep deprivation dulled Justice’s consciousness into a low murmur. Maker, sleep… That was what he needed, anything to slip away from reality for a short moment at least. He’d gladly welcome the most violent Warden nightmare if it would mean catching a break from himself. And his other half.

He threw his grimy coat off, then his boots. Not bothering with relieving himself of the rest of his clothes, or even noticing how badly he needed a bath, the healer hoisted himself into his cot. Old blankets and furs he gathered during the past three years provided some comfort from the cold. 

With strain, he managed not to toss and turn. His clenched fists and jaw relaxed in time, his heartbeat slowed down. At last, he fell asleep. 

\---

The Fade – a realm where mortals went in their dreams. Mages entered it consciously. It would seem a blessing, given they could dream lucid, but their presence and awareness only attracted the ever hungry demons. Not that any demon would dare solicit him under Justice’s watchful eye.

He hoped he could relax, allowing his subconscious paint whatever it wanted before him, or have his taint manifest itself in the form of another gory nightmare, but neither came.

And yet the Fade shifted around him. The realm was in a constant state of change, with no fixed landscape, but Anders felt it attuning to him. Preparing something for him. _He_ was causing this change, or rather the spirit trapped inside him…

What did Justice want to show him?

The soft, treacherous ground underneath softened further, swirling around his feet, picking up pace, transforming into a vortex, swallowing the mage whole. He knew resistance was futile, there was no way of warding from _himself_. Because he and Justice were one.

He hung his head in defeat, letting whatever vision would come suck him in.


	2. Chapter 2

The luminescent mist parted, revealing a familiar surrounding – Vigil’s Keep courtyard. This wasn’t a dream, rather a distorted memory. Strange, why would Justice want him to relive the past?

There he was, his old self, free of spirit possession, yet the scenery and feline on his laps implied he was one of the Wardens. It must have been shortly after his Joining, since he wore his favorite tevinter robes – exotic and exquisite, previously belonging to a prominent Magister.

The tabby kitten purred in response to his touch. He missed that critter. His old self stroked Pounce-a-lot’s back, ignoring how the cat retracted it’s claws, jabbing his laps. The pain was worth it.

Pounce’s ears erected, then laid flat on the back of his head. He hissed and bolted from his human’s laps. He never liked Justice.

The spirit, wearing Kristoff’s steel-clad body, approached, thankfully he was upwind. The dead, glassy eyes were fixed on the mage who up to now was relaxing propped against the well’s casing.

“I believe you have a responsibility to your fellow mages.” He said without bothering with a greeting.

“That bit of self-righteousness is directed at me.” Memory-Anders snarled, pretending not to care. Truth be told, the spirit’s words gave him unrest, making him actually consider fighting the system he was always running away from.

“You have seen oppression and are now free. You must act to free those who remain oppressed.” Justice went on, forcing his host’s dried and chipped lips to form words that struck chords in the mage.

“Or I could mind my business, in case the Chantry comes knocking.” Anders dodged the spirit’s demand with a grim quip. He was certain that would eventually happen. His real self, passively watching the scene, knew how and when it would take place.

“But this is not right. You have an obligation.” Justice was stubborn. In a matter of weeks his younger self would learn just how stubborn and _possessive_ the spirit could be.

“ Yes, well... welcome to the world, spirit.” He ended the argument getting up and fled the scene, like he used to when things got too intense or serious. Justice was left alone, but not in the slightest was he resigned.

The mists rose again, obscuring the spirit and courtyard. Anders was alone in jade emptiness, but that was never entirely true. The presence, like someone was permanently fixed to the back of his head, remained even in the Fade.

“Good old times…” He dared make a bitter joke, directing it at said presence.

In response he felt a sharp pull, falling into another vision.

\---

 

Vigil’s Keep again, but this time the undercroft. Himself once more, but this time he was clad in the familiar silver-blue armor suitable for a Grey Warden. Pounce was nowhere to be found… possibly already left in good care of a kind soul he knew back in Amaranthine city.

He needn’t look over his old self’s shoulder to know what he was bending over; Kristoff’s body laid on a stone altar. It was weeks before Aura, Kristoff’s wife, would come to collect her husband’s remains and finally give them a proper burial. Until then the body rested here.

Justice had his head cut off by a Hurlock during the siege of Vigil’s Keep, whilst the Warden-Commander, Nathaniel, Sigrun and Anders we’re defending Amaranthine. But the spirit clung to the dead flesh, refusing to return to the Fade. 

A few days after their return from the Dragon Boneyard Anders visited the undercroft on a strange impulse. That was when he saw the glassy eyes open and stare at him. Justice spoke to him, and him only, urging to take his offer under consideration, feeding the apostate with promises of a world where no child is torn away from its mother, just because it was born with a talent from the Maker. 

The mage left in terror, excusing himself with a vague promise of consideration. Ever since, wherever he found himself in Vigil’s Keep, he would hear Justice’s faint call. It was maddening. He decided to ask the Commander for short leave to ‘assist with healing the survivors of Amaranthine’. He spent days healing wounds and assisting passing always, which in a way was therapeutic.

And when he came back he was instantly harassed by Justice’s cry for attention. And news that the Warden-Commander left for good when he was away. That was a blow, the Commander was a good friend. Though the more rational part of the mage was certain the Chantry ‘comes knocking’ soon. 

Justice kept promising freedom for mages and retribution to their oppressors. But Anders already had his own problems, without dreams of revolution; after the Warden-Commander suddenly left the keep, the templars wormed their way into the Wardens. He knew it was only a matter of time before they strike, they’d never leave him be, not until he’s dead.

And now he was here, staring at the dried husk of a former Warden that served as a meatsuit for a spirit.

“Anders…” A faint whisper came, but it was all in the mage’s head. By that time Justice couldn’t use Kristoff’s body to speak; the throat had no connection to the larynx or lungs. The entity brutally grazed the mage’s mind, unable to penetrate deeper, like a demon soliciting itself to a potential host. Oh, the irony.

“I’m here.” His memory-self replied calmly.

“I’m fading.” Justice confessed. “I’m too weak to remain here, lest I become a shade…”

“I’ve been thinking about all the things you said.” He interrupted. “And…” 

This was it, this was when he would agree to join with the spirit in the name of mage freedom.

“No. You can’t expect me to do _that._ ” His memory-self said, diverting from what real Anders remembered.

“We could make a difference together…” The whisper came quieter. “Bring justice to…”

“No.” The Warden clenched his jaws. “Not for the price you’re asking.”

“They deserve freedom… They deserve to be avenged…”

“They do.” Anders agreed, but then shook his head. “But I’m not the one to give it to them. I can hardly protect myself.”

“With my aid…”

“No!” He screamed, his voice magnified by the stone walls.

There was silence. A slight shift in the air, the chill radiating from the body disappeared. Now it was only a corpse.

“Justice?” The Fade version of Anders called, but there was no response.

The scene faded into familiar greenish nothingness. This was not how it happened. In reality, they made a pact, right there in the moldy dark undercroft. Real Anders couldn’t ignore the injustice’s inflicted onto his people anymore, realizing he had to look past his personal suffering. And Justice promised he’d give him his help, his power. All he needed was a body.

He remembered he took Kristoff’s severed head and like many times in the Circle Tower, fled into the night. But for the first time he felt resent he had to escape. He felt welcome in the Wardens, a part of something… But that sense of kinship ended when the Commander disappeared and the templars infiltrated the order’s ranks.

Shapes began to emerge from the mists, Anders braced himself for whatever would come.


	3. Chapter 3

Those woods. _Those_ blighted woods! Where he and Justice joined, only to be ambushed by the templars a moment later, still weak and confused from their fusion. This was a continuation of the previous dream, real-Anders somehow knew that though a dreamer’s sixth sense.

Rolan. That smug, cruel bastard. How badly he filled Warden armor. The lackeys he brought along had more fitting flaming sword ornaments adorning their chestpieces. 

“You can’t hide behind the Wardens anymore _mage_.” Rolan said, his voice vibrating with smug satisfaction.

“It was good while it lasted.” Dream-Anders replied, keeping up the laid-back pose to the very end, knowing how desperate his situation was.

The circle of templars tightened around him, ready to strike at the slightest move. He had no illusions – this was the end. But he’d be damned if he bows and begs. He’s not going down without a fight – however pathetic his resistance may be.

There was neither time nor room to reach for his staff, he had to think fast and move faster. Around him a ring of ice exploded in a short, violent burst, the sharp shards clashing against silverite of the templars. Most of them staggered back, a few fell on the snap-frozen grass.

Except for Rolan. He shook off the blast with next to no effort. In a second he was in front of Anders, faint blue vapor – the lyrium he drank – visible on his breath. His sword was level with the mage’s chest, but there was no Justice to protect him. 

Anders hadn’t time to properly register what was happening; Rolan’s sword sunk hilt-deep into his chest, the mage made no sound, not even a faint gasp. Blood gushed through his nose and mouth, he wrapped his arms around the templar in a parody of an embrace.

It was all over. Years of running, living on borrowed time, all came to a swift and violent end. Unsurprising – from the hand of a templar. 

Rolan struck deeper, with a satisfied grin, savoring the look on the mage’s face. After the initial shock and disbelief, there was a second of pure pain and sorrow on Anders’ face. But it was only a moment, swallowed by pure hate that overpowered pain and fear of death. 

The mage hunter chuckled, his face twisted with cruel glee. He twisted the blade, hoping to hear a scream from his victim – Anders, THE Anders who eluded and ridiculed the order for so many years. But the mage hadn’t given him that satisfaction; his lungs and throat were full of blood, dead numbness already seeping into his veins.

“Too bad, I hoped for a better performance from you.” He whispered into the apostates ear. “Still, the pleasure was all mine…”

Anders spat blood into his face. The templar grunted, kicking him off his sword. The apostate fell back, clutching the hole in his chest. He hit hard on the ground, still shimmering from the frost spell. Strange, he felt surprisingly light…

He kicked and clawed at the ground, ripping chunks of soil. There was no use fighting for air, he could barely gurgle, pink bubbles forming in the corners of his mouth. So cold… So numb…

The templars gathered around him, watching his last tormented moments. The fall of the hardy Anders was a sight indeed.

Rolan laughed, kneeling next to him, their eyes fixed. The templar’s silverite-clad hand reached forward, as if wanting to stroke his victim’s cheek. But that wasn’t the case. Rolan’s fingers closed tightly on Ander’s earring. Seconds before the mage’s eyes went dark, he pulled sharply, tearing the earlobe, ripping the gold circle off.

“A trophy?” One of the mage hunters asked.

“A good luck charm.” He replied playfully.

The templars exchanged remarks, one kicked the body disappointed it wouldn’t moan or squirm anymore. Another one spat in his face, the thick saliva landing just below his jaw. They then retreated, paying the body no more attention, chattering in high spirits after a job well done.

Real-Anders stood frozen the whole gruesome scene. There was nothing he could do anyway, since this was just a… Dream? No. It wasn’t real, but Anders knew this couldn’t be far from what would happen if he and Justice hadn’t joined.

He stepped forward, gazing at his dream-self; the empty look in his eyes, the gaping hole in his chest, the tear in his ear. And the blood, so much blood in his lithe body.

This never happened. But it could… it _would_ happen eventually hadn’t he made the tough decision. Hadn’t he realized there was no room for compromise. No more running. There was either death, or fight.

He’d rather go down fighting.

But Justice wasn’t done yet, Anders could feel the Fade adjusting to whatever the spirit wanted him to see next. He knew arguing or resisting was pointless, he had to endure.


	4. Chapter 4

The Deep Roads. Maker, he thought there could be nothing worse from those blighted woods.

The walls were covered with fluorescent lichen, casting ominous shadows at the jagged edges of long-ruined dwarven stonework. Although this wasn’t real, Anders could piece form memory the smell of dirt, toxic gases and damp stone.

Even in a dream he could feel something was off about this section of the Deep Roads. There were no animals, not even a squeak of a nug. This was usually a very bad sign. Unlike in his previous dream, no events unraveled before him. Instead, he felt a compulsion to explore the corridors further.

Were this reality, he’d need to summon light, but the lichen soon gave in to conveniently placed glowing veins. Red lyrium. The mage tried to ignore the bloody coloring on the walls and rock formations. He sensed, that this was the primeval thaig, where three years ago Bartrand betrayed Varric and their expedition.

He was thankful he couldn’t pick up smells, seeing the first sleek tendril running parallel to the lyrium. The darkspawn corruption. Further down the tunnel, he saw more and more tendrils, oozing a foul substance that spilled itself at his feet like tar.

“Maker…” He sighed, repulsed despite nothing of this being tangible.

The veins of corruption almost obstructed the glowing redness, for a second the mage imagined he was inside a living organism’s bloodstream. That is, were that creature coming down with the most foul sickness imaginable.

He heard a noise other than the low hum of draft. A scraping sound, like metal against stone. He followed that noise, fearing what scenario Justice imagined for him.

The corridor turned sharply, opening to a natural cavern overflowing with pustules and black veins. The cavern also had a few glowing crystals; solid red lyrium. Shadows were deeper here somehow, a sharp contrast between red and black. The smell, were all this real, would either give him feel nausea or paralyze him right away. 

There was a shape sulking on the edge of light. The scraping sound came from it brushing against the stones. Anders waited for it to approach, so that the scene would start.

“No…” He whispered seeing a familiar face twisted by the darkspawn taint.

It was Hawke. Although Anders knew he couldn’t be seen by the nightmarish version of his friend, he instinctively stepped back, covering his mouth. This was too horrible to imagine but so cruelly logical. 

He died in Amaranthine, so Hawke and Varric couldn’t approach him in his clinic asking for the Warden maps. Because he was dead, he couldn’t give it to them in addition to coming with them deep down underground. Therefore, he couldn’t help navigate a safer route into the Deep Roads, and he couldn’t use his Warden sensitivity to warn about approaching darkspawn.

Without him, the expedition was doomed and Hawke ended up a ghoul.

He watched his friend walk past by, taking notice in some pile of debris and old bones. The mage followed, mesmerized by Hawke’s sluggish, clumsy movement. Something terrible was going to happen, but he couldn’t dispel the illusion. He had to watch. 

Hawke fell clumsily on their knees and clawed at a lump of tattered clothing and flesh. Anders groaned seeing a piece of meat tearing off the long-dead body and disappearing between Hawke’s swollen lips. The ghouls feasted, making sounds that were equally revolting as they were eerie. Savagely, it ripped off an entire arm; short but thick, crushing flesh and boon with its rotten teeth.

Captive audience of the gross display, Anders wanted to turn away, but something told him he wasn’t done watching. He had to look closer, pay attention to some detail he was about to miss. Something Justice wanted him to see…

Bianca. The broken crossbow laid faithfully next to the stocky corpse the ghoul was devouring.

“No…” He realized suddenly who provided sustenance for Hawke’s tainted shell. “NO!”

He stepped back, relieved there was no ground under his feet and fell backwards into the familiar misty vortex.


	5. Chapter 5

No woods, no Deep Roads. A room, but it instantly felt ominous nonetheless. It bore the mark of the templar order, and not just because of the flaming sword ornament placed on the wall directly opposite to the door. Or the templar seated at the desk facing the entrance. It was the aura of force and fear that clung to every surface. 

From where he was standing Anders had a good look at the man. Ser Alrik. Despite this being the Fade and the man not really being Otto Alrik, the mage felt a wave of burning hate wash over him. He vividly remembered the templar’s face transfixed with shock and then pain when Anders’ hand – guided by the spirit inside him – tore through his chestpiece and reached his black heart. 

Why was justice showing him this pile of spew pretending to be a knight? Wasn’t the horror of seeing his own death and the Deep Roads enough? He grinded his teeth, watching Alrik shuffle his papers. It was disturbing how… tender the templar seemed to be with them. The mage had a bad feeling of their contents. He didn’t want to spend another minute with that sadist, even if it was just a mirage.

There was a knock on the door.

“Enter.” The templar’s voice was firm.

The door was pushed open and then quickly closed behind a figure in robes. The man who entered could be mistaken for a mage weren’t it for the sunburst symbol burned onto his forehead. 

“Mercy…” Anders whispered.

But Justice had no grasp of mercy, showing him a memory of Karl. Anders felt his knees weak, overloaded with intense memories of the only person he regretted leaving behind in the Circle tower.

Of course. This was logically cruel; Anders died in Amaranthine, so he couldn’t come to Kirkwall to aid Karl which eventually led him to kill his former lover out of mercy. Karl lived… as a Tranquil.

“Thekla.” Ser Alrik hadn’t greeted, merely registered Karl’s presence. 

He got back to his documents, ignoring the other man, who wanted patiently and indifferently, like a statue. Perfectly quiet and obedient, just how the templars liked it. The scene was still, but Anders couldn’t bear to watch. Given that it was Otto Alrik who did the Ritual on Karl… it would be fitting he kept the ex-mage as a servant of sorts. 

“The Rite of Tranquility will take place tonight.” The knight finally said, not bothering with looking at Karl. “Make sure everything is ready.”

“Who am I to bring?” The Tranquil asked in that distinct monotonous tone.

“Bethany Hawke.”

Anders howled. Everyone he cared for, everyone he wanted safe and out of this mess… But Justice went back to the Fade. He was dead. Hawke was a ghoul. Karl was still alive, but what life was that? And Bethany was taken to the Gallows with no chance of rescue. At the mercy of monsters like Otto Alrik.

All because he refused Justice’s offer.

“Notify ser Karras that I need the brand for tonight. That will be all.” Alrik commanded, then lost interest in the Tranquil.

But Karl hadn’t moved an inch. He stood still long enough to get Alrik’s attention.

“What is it, Thekla?” He asked annoyed and suspicious as to why a Tranquil wasn’t carrying out a task.

“The mage Bethany Hawke has passed her Harrowing.” Karl’s flat tone reminded. 

The templar vigorously got up from his chair and walked around his desk to meet with Karl. He grabbed the man by the wrist and painfully twisted, a faint sigh escaped Karl’s lips.

“She has, Thekla.” Alrik hissed part with anger and part with pleasure. “And so have you. And yet you went through the Rite. Do you remember why?”

“I was too rebellious.” The ex-mage replied, his face still, although the angle his hand was twisted risked a injury. “I needed to learn how to control myself.”

“Exactly. Harrowing or not, she spent nineteen years avoiding justice. Now, how dangerous do you think an apostate like that can be? How long before she betrays the credit of doubt the Knight-Commander gave her?” He asked, but didn’t expect an answer. 

He pushed Karl away, finally releasing his hand. The Tranquil took a few steps back before smacking against the door. He regained his relaxed posture in a second, his blank stare locked on the knight.

“And who are you Thekla to challenge my judgment when you betrayed the trust the Order placed in you?” Alrik rambled on. “It’s a kindles we allow the likes of you to live in our custody. And yet you mages persist to be ungrateful… It’s a wonder this Circle hasn’t yet been annulled.” He regained his cool. One would wonder did the knight really believe the bullshit spilling from his mouth.

“Forgive my insolence, ser Alrik. I shall get everything prepared for tonight’s Rite.” Karl finally said, waiting for the command to leave.

“Get out.” 

The templar breathed deeply after the door shut behind Karl. He shook his head with a grumble, returning to his seat and documents. Anders already had a quick look at them; they were Hawke’s sister’s files.

“Now, where were we…?” He asked, running his gauntlet-clad fingers through Bethany’s portrait. “Ah, yes… Soon, my dear. Very soon…”


	6. Chapter 6

Anders found himself on the gritty floor of his clinic. He must have rolled off his cot in his sleep. The side of his face was grazed from the fall, but no matter. Thank the Maker he woke up.

Wobbly, he sat up trying to gather his thoughts. Those were only nightmares, yes. Perhaps they were accurate predictions of what could happen if he hadn’t decided to join with Justice, but they were still only dreams… Conjured by said spirit. 

It was still dark, but he didn’t feel like sleeping anymore. He was tired and needed rest badly, but he was too anxious and mentally exhausted to risk another traumatizing vision.

He had to admit, he made some bad choices in his life. But come to think of it, their aftermath affected him, not the few people he cared about. And that… was all he needed. As long as it served a higher purpose, he didn’t care how much he suffered. All he needed to know was that some good came out of it. That his cause wasn’t lost… unlike himself.

If that meant mages would one day stop living in fear, it was worth it.

Reassured, he felt an invigorating impulse to do something, act. Stop wallowing in regrets, move on! Do something! His manifesto! How many times he revised it through those years? He lost count. It wouldn’t hurt to skim through it one more time and add some new input, wouldn’t it?

He got up from the floor to retrieve the hidden stash from behind one of the loose rocks in the wall. It was there, wrapped up in old linen sheets. Hurriedly, already planning his paragraphs, Anders laid the sheets of his manifesto on the makeshift table and lit one of the few candles he had remaining with a touch of his fingertips. 

The trusty quill he used along with ink were safely hidden in a pot covered with a thick lid, to protect from rodents. The mage opened the inkpot, paying no mind he stained the back of his hand, and dipped the quill’s tip in the black liquid.

Instantly, he was consumed by the fever of writing, pouring his heart and passion into another version of his manifesto. His hand barely catching up with his mind, sweat beading on his forehead. 

One day, everyone will see.

One day everyone will have to choose a side and stop pretending the problem doesn’t exist.

One day justice will be served. 

The End  
29.08.2014   
Airie Feristo


End file.
